


Full Circle

by musamihi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Infidelity, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a young man eager to move forward, John meets Greg for the first time in a Brighton pub. By the time they cross paths again, all he wants is to go back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sherlock's Summer Vacay @ [Sherlockmas](http://sherlockmas.livejournal.com/), based on the prompt: _John/Lestrade, they meet in a pub before the series begins and have a one night stand._

_July, 1995._

Greg's wallet has been molded into the shape of his back pocket, and even in these jeans – too snug after sitting in a drawer for years – he can't feel it when he sits down. Not, that is, until he slips his ring off and tucks it into the empty fold that's meant for coins but that he's never used. Then he feels it, all right; then it bites into his hip and makes him fidget on his barstool like the fucking Princess and the Pea. But his ring has never been comfortable. He's worn it for a year (not even long enough to have left more than a shallow groove in his skin) and has never stopped touching it. Maybe that should have been some kind of sign.

The pub's doors are open, its casement windows thrown out into the busy street. It's about nine thirty and the sun's just set, leaving the sky a strangely energetic blue, incongruous with the shadowed buildings, the street lamps, the club clothes cropping up with increasing frequency in the crowds outside. Greg finds it all unsettling. He shouldn't be here. There's a list, actually, of things he shouldn't have done: insisting on going down to Brighton to take the witness interviews himself, intentionally scheduling one questioning for the next day, calling his wife and telling her that he was sorry, that he'd made a mistake, that he would have to spend the night. Booking a room upstairs. Paying in cash. Changing into these jeans and this T-shirt that he remembers once thinking flattering, hiding his wedding ring in his pocket. 

Smiling at the first decent-looking man who wanders in alone. 

He shouldn't have done any of these things; but she did them first, goddamnit. And he's going to try to have a little fun, even if the reminder that he's not allowed to is biting into his ass all night. Then they'll both have one under their belts. They'll be even. That will be that. He drinks to it, putting back the end of his first pint and immediately ordering a second.

The man he met eyes with moments ago sits beside him just as the bartender plants the glass in front of him, slopping a little bitter over onto the paper coaster. Greg looks at him openly, wrapping his hands around his glass. He's younger – maybe twenty-five or thirty – and short but pretty well put-together, with a sweet face, an unfortunate haircut, and a smile that's no less charming for being just a little shy.

Deceptively shy, as he's soon to discover.

"Hello." The man reaches his hand over with an amiable arch of his eyebrows. "I'm shipping out to Bosnia on Wednesday." 

Greg's taken aback enough that he forgets to wipe the condensation off his palm before shaking his hand. "Yeah? Shit." That's the haircut, then. 

"No, it's great. I've been waiting to get the hell out of here. I'm tired of it, you know?" His hand shoots up into the air as soon as the bartender next turns around. "I can't wait."

"So you came out here to – what? Celebrate?" 

"Well – yes and no. My parents live in town and I stopped in to say a proper good-bye. They’ve never been all that keen on the whole Army thing. So I did a couple days with them, just to show them – you know, spirits are high and all that."

Greg regards him over the rim of his glass. There's a faint desperation to the man's cheer that he'd chalk up to nerves or even dishonesty if he were working – but he's not, and instead of the usual suspicion he feels only a little pity. He's got a right to be nervous, after all. "Did it work?"

"Doubt it." He shrugs, and the incongruity between his flashing smile and his slightly furrowed brow seems to vanish, his face balancing into a hearty, happy sort of apathy. "But they'll see, won't they? What brings you here?"

"Just business," Greg replies, before realizing that might not be exactly what he's asking. "It's, ah –"

"It's a nice place to come for business," his drinking companion says at once, a bit rushed, quite obviously cutting him off. His smile is apologetic but his eyes are tripping clumsily over Greg's chest, hips, everything they can consume in one blunt, unpracticed gesture. "Lucky you."

 _All right, then._ "Yeah. Lucky me." His nameless soldier seems to know what he wants, even if he doesn't quite know his way around it. Well, he's more than happy to help. When was the last time he did his part, _really_ , for the boys overseas? He shifts his weight on the stool, crossing his legs and bringing the instep of his shoe into very deliberate contact with the other man's ankle. The object of his attention perks up at once as though reconstituted, his fixed smile lifting into something very nearly cocky, and Greg finds it makes him feel good – accomplished. If this is his project for the night, he's not going to complain.

It's just rapid chatter after that, the soldier giving him an animated rundown of an adolescence spent in and around this city, of stupid antics – most of them his – during training, mentioning ever so casually that he also happens to be a doctor. He's a good storyteller, Greg notices when he's a few sips into his third beer and hasn't spoken except to laugh or ask a clarifying question in about fifteen minutes. There's anxiety in this man's constant stream of anecdotes, but there's also an endearing joy, the kind of pleasure taken in life that he's not sure he's ever possessed. He has his moments, of course, on perfect fall afternoons or quiet early mornings when something breaks through the thickening skin of his daily existence and makes him wonder at a commonplace like a cloud-shadow on a bridge or leaves tumbling noisily through a gutter. But that's different – that's a little glimpse of loftiness he always backs away from in a rush on the suspicion that it's just a little too grand for him. It's not the sincere and unpretentious delight that this man takes in _everything_ \- everything, that is, but the present.

By the time Greg's finished his drink and begun to waver between paying his bill and adding to it, the only question his new friend has asked him is whether he's ever been to Brighton before. Not his business, not where he's come from, not his name. It's a funny way to have a conversation. But Greg's amenable; he doesn't feel much call to talk about himself. Most of anything he said would have to be a lie, and he'd rather not remind himself of the obstacles the truth presents. Better to slip into someone else's life for a while. And if he gives some outward bound kid a chance to relive his fonder moments, then – all the better.

"I think I'd better call it quits," Greg says into a brief, easy silence. He hasn't looked at his watch in a while, but no doubt it's later than he wants it to be, considering his presence is required at eight o'clock the next morning. His empty glass finds its soggy coaster for the last time. "About time to turn in."

His new friend's face stiffens for a moment as though it's been swapped out for something cast in plaster, and Greg has to wonder how on earth he could be any clearer. "Oh – yes. Business, right. Well, it was, um –"

"Don't have far to go, thankfully." Greg drags his wallet out of his pocket and briskly taps its corner twice against the bar, feeling the ring slide around inside of it like a dead, dry seed in a pod. "Number eight's just up the stairs and a left." And if he can't find his way there _now_ , God help the Army.

But the man pulls through admirably in the end, rapping gently at the door and even looking a little surprised when Greg throws it open half a second later. Greg very much enjoys provoking that open, pleased expression as often as he can, watching his lips parting just so, his compact shoulders shooting up with the force of a deep, satisfied breath. He makes a little time to admire it right after he's taken the man's prick into his mouth, and if he has to imagine it while he's deep inside him, watching the straining lines of his back lunge back and forth against the dark patterns of the bedding, he considers himself well-compensated by the charmingly tame stream of not-quite-obscenities pouring out of his surprisingly strong mouth. The man can kiss, whoever he is, and Greg enjoys the formless stretch of time in which his body feels as though it's contracting back into himself exploring his mouth.

And when his bed, at the end of the night, is empty and rumpled, when his still-nameless soldier has stumbled contentedly out into the bright, silent hallway, Greg sits at the open window, staring through the slight fog that's collected toward the diffuse lights of the piers. It's there that he tries to feel some of that simple, earnest love of life and all its joys and mishaps that's still floating somewhere in the corners of the room, although its author is well on his way back to his parents' house. But all he can think of when he sees the hard black band of night that should stand for _the ocean_ , boundless, impenetrable, mysterious, is that, really, it's just the Channel, and there are people who have swum it in one go.

_January, 2010._

John decides he's impressed by Sergeant Donovan, even if he can't quite like her – there aren't many people who'd look him that squarely in the face after having their indiscretions exposed that abruptly. But the way she's measuring him up as she lifts the yellow tape and directs him to the road – sorry for him, though he couldn't say whether it's because of Holmes or because of his leg – is putting him off even more than the long, dim stretch that lies between him and any chance of a cab. The flashing lights of emergency vehicles raise unnatural shadows out of the nearby houses and alleys, and he can't help but feel that something's lurking for him there, although he knows this is _just_ a feeling, that not so long ago he was able to face the world without expecting it to explode at any moment on the periphery.

It doesn't seem like long ago, anyhow. But it's actually been fifteen years since the cocky, chattering idiot he used to be met the man who is now Detective Inspector Lestrade, who probably even then was a cop, and although he can remember it as clearly as though it were last week, it's as inaccessible to him as another continent. Was he ever really that stupidly happy?

"Hold on."

He turns to see Lestrade stripping his gloves off, stepping out of his crumpled paper suit and striding down the steps to the road. John recognized him at once, of course, when he came running up into Sherlock Holmes' Baker Street flat; he doesn't look so different now, except for the extra silver in his hair. Holmes must have noticed the moment they spent gaping at one another, but apparently serial suicides held more interest for him than any connection between his Scotland Yard liaison and his new flatmate.

Well. Potential new flatmate.

Lestrade stops beside him, straightening his jacket, and drops his hand on the bonnet of the car Donovan's been leaning against. "I'll get him home. You can go in and take over – they're starting to bag everything."

She marches off into the house and John watches, wary, hearing _stay away from Sherlock Holmes_ in the click of her heels. He's not a superstitious man, but maybe it means something, this unexpected run-in with an old fling – not even a fling – on the same day he meets someone who seems very likely to change his future for the better. "You don't have to drive me, I can –"

"Just get in the car." Lestrade sounds brusque and tired, not much like the affectionate man John followed into bed in Brighton. He remembers him as almost _too_ much of a sweetheart, the sort of man who crosses the line into corny trying to get you to smile and smile. Now Lestrade takes the wheel with a flat, grim look on his face, and says nothing as they pull up to the intersection. Of course, he didn't say much the last time they met, did he? John did most of the talking, then.

He ought to start now, too, he supposes, since the man will need his address. "Thanks. It's, um – it’s off the Strand. I'll show you."

With a nod, Lestrade makes the turn. A couple of slow, silent minutes pass before he clears his throat. "So, you're – what, Sherlock's assistant? He's never mentioned you before."

"No, I'm –" John shifts uncomfortably, repositioning his cane beside his thigh. He's going to have to find a way nip this _assistant_ thing in the bud, in future. He doesn't like the sound of it. "I'm his flatmate. I'm moving into his spare room."

Lestrade's jaw drops a little. "No way." But when John only turns to stare at him in reply he seems to rally a bit, shutting his mouth and giving a sharp nod and, by the strangely shifting muscles in his face, trying to hide a smile. "I mean, great. That's great. It'll do him some good to have someone around, I'll bet." But he adds something in a nearly indistinguishable murmur that sounds very much to John like _good luck_.

John doesn't want to admit how much he's looking forward to it, so he keeps his mouth shut and watches the passing shop fronts as they make their way up Brixton Road. Tonight's the first time in ages he's felt excited. Sherlock Holmes is something new, something that forces him to sit up and open his eyes and actually take a good, hard look at things around him, and he likes it. He would never say so, not so soon, not even to his therapist, because the prospect of getting his hopes up for nothing is too awful to admit even to himself, but – he wants to hope. He wants to feel like he did that summer when all he cared about was setting off into the world for an adventure, when Sarajevo seemed like the best thing that could possibly have happened to him.

But look what happened then – look where his adventure has landed him. The first hint of that pervasive thrill that once buoyed him up just lodges in his leg and his shoulder like fire and reminds him that no, _no_ , things are never as good as they seem.

"So," Lestrade continues, his voice breaking in on John's suffocating inner spiral, a welcome distraction. "You didn't get that in Bosnia, did you?"

"No. No – Afghanistan. Took a bullet."

Lestrade grimaces. "Got you sent home, did it?"

"I didn't want to come home."

He doesn't realize he's snapped at him until the silence stretches out three seconds, and then four, and he glances quickly to the side to see Lestrade's set, withdrawn expression in profile. It's a nice profile, which he's had occasion to notice before. Soft, but strong. He remembers what it looks like when it breaks into a crooked, earnest, guilty smile, and for a moment he feels a little sorry –

" _Jesus!_ " Lestrade slams on the brakes and John throws his arm up against the dash. They come to a hard, jolting stop a foot or two into the intersection, and Lestrade cranes his neck forward to stare up at the traffic light. "Did you see that? It was green, and then it was fucking –"

The radio crackles softly, though the display is completely darkened. "If I might have a moment, Inspector."

John blinks down at the dials. _What the hell?_

The feeling that he's gone down the rabbit hole doesn't exactly dissipate when Lestrade starts talking _back_ to it. "Are you trying to cause an accident? You're lucky there wasn't anyone behind me –"

"Please advance sixty meters and make a left turn into the alley," the radio says, quite calmly.

"I'm actually busy at the moment –"

"Thank you, Inspector."

The traffic light abruptly switches to green. With an exasperated sigh, Lestrade starts forward again.

John stares, waiting until they've done as the radio instructed and turned into an alley to park beside a darkened town car to speak. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry," Lestrade mutters, pulling his mobile out of his pocket as though to check whether it's functioning. "I have to – well, you know, I'll bet he wants to talk to you."

" _Who?_ "

A woman steps neatly out of the waiting car and crosses the narrow space between them to lay her hand on John's door handle. He looks out at her, raising his eyebrows and very pointedly refraining from undoing the lock. A moment later it pops up anyway, and his mysterious visitor pulls the door open for him.

John swivels back to glare at Lestrade, but he has his hands up on the steering wheel and only rolls his eyes with an apologetic shrug. "There's really no point in –"

"What the hell is going on?" John has no idea who this person is or what on earth they could want with him, and he realizes with a mix of dread and excitement that he likes it. That anything could happen. That his pulse is picking up in a steady, strong acceleration, not the quick and jerky shifts that precede a full-blown panic.

Lestrade's looking up at the woman when he answers, a slight hint of defiance in the angle of his mouth. "It's Mycroft Holmes – Sherlock's brother. He likes to make a big show, but I wouldn't let him get to you."

"And why does he want to talk to me?" The woman gazes patiently down at him, and John gets the feeling her mind is very far away.

"Only he can tell you that," Lestrade replies, although the way his eyes drop a little and his shoulders turn inward makes John think he might be withholding something. It doesn't matter – he's not afraid of Mycroft Holmes, whoever he is, or of any of this. He finds he _wants_ to get out of the car, that he's all too eager to plant his cane on the ground and launch himself out into the night.

But just as the woman is about to shut the door behind him he turns on impulse, catching it with his hand, and leans down to look Lestrade in the eye again. "Hey," he begins, _do you ever get any spare time_ on the tip of his tongue, because suddenly he feels almost like himself again, like he could find a way to shape himself back into the younger, easier man he was before – but as Lestrade is sticking his phone back into his pocket there's a dull flash of metal, a ring on his hand John had somehow failed to notice. "Thanks for the ride," he says instead, after a brief hesitation. 

It's probably a good thing, a much-needed reminder. He is _not_ the man he used to be. He can't fall back into that carefree sense of wonder any more than he can throw his cane aside and run. It isn't going to happen. _Don’t get your hopes up_ , his body screams at him every time he takes a step; _don't get your hopes up_ is the incessant refrain of his passive mind when he falls into reverie or lies waiting to fall asleep or wakes up to something that looks like it might, just _might_ , be a better day. Things will never be as they were. What better symbol than a wedding ring? Lestrade has as little chance of being his again as does that old, joyful feeling he used to get doing little more than looking out a window. It's all buried, now.

"Welcome," Lestrade says, and then the door slams to and John piles into the other Holmes' car and lets his leg and his shoulder and all the conscious bits of his brain tell him that the anticipation he's feeling is just a shadow, like the itching of an amputated limb.

He only wishes his heart would get the message, too.


End file.
